The poetry and ramblings of Jesse Barnhart

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Listen,
It’s getting late—
I sense a pressure and hesitation
in your breath…

Don’t worry,

I am not hunting for love or intense intimacy—not now—
that can wait.

I barely know you
and that’s okay.
there many more days
and many places to stumble,
things to see, and stars to jump to
until we drop…

we can worry about that future and the
definition of “us” later—I’ll look forward to it—
but until then

a simple conversation will do,
where ever they lead…
I’m okay with those chances.

and no….
there is no pressure,
no desperation,

I’m not in search of pent house bragging rights,
conquests, tally marks, emotionless, scripted, lust-filled rendezvous.
but a cup of tea?

I’d love some tea.

And remember,
some of the most intimate moments
are when nothing really happens—
rainy days and a movie
(Bogart and Bacall perhaps?)
long walks at sun set—cliché I know—
or maybe just sitting hanging out in the park,
a book in your hands, my notepad and pen in mine.

I think we can get there, but there’s no rush
there are still those moments to be had,
the inside jokes, the simple under standings,
the long pauses, and endless laughter—that’s
where we’ll find that definition.

I sat alone in a booth half-watching, waiting for my scrapple and eggs
sipping luke-warm coffee
as I flipped through the morning paper.

Accident knocks out town’s power
Gasoline tax hike in Pennsylvania
I watched her order, pointing across the room to the chocolate cake in window,
the waitress, Barb, laughs and goes and gets the cake.

It’ doesn’t matter that it’s only 6:30am,
that the sun is just thinking about waking up,
that there’s a long day ahead, and norms
and expected procedures to follow.

She knows what she wants,
I admire that,

and the chocolate cake knows what it’s like to be wanted.
Ignoring any weird implications of being jealous of a cake
(I personally loathe chocolate cake),
I continued to read the paper.
1 Dead, 30 Hurt in Massive I-76 Pileup in Montgomery County
Brothers charged for storm-sewer thefts.
Crowds gather to mourn baby set on fire in NJ
Freezing Rain to return Wednesday.

I drink less now
and I’m not sure if it’s because
I have less to drink
or if I’m too distracted.

My cherished flask that sits on my desk,
it was once reserved for lonely lips on long nights—
late night fuel to fire up stagnant synapse.
Dust has settled on its nozzle
along with the pencils, notepads,
and the
keyboard.

Yes,
I confess,
I write less now—but I’m not saying there’s less to write—

there’s more to write, there’s always more to write,

and it itches and itches but
at some point a man must steps away from fictions
in order to figure out
which truths are
real…

life is where the muses live
after all.
So as I forge forward,
my eyes focus on the sunrise and
sun sets and everything
in between and after, and
my ears eavesdropping on Nature
and all those around,
the day to day becomes
my adventure.

The stranger, the unknown; my puzzle.
questions and answers beget further questions and answers and questions

And so on and so forth.

Not all is meant to be understood or known, paradox
and the unanswered spark further appreciation—grinning
I walk on, contemplating the vast expanse of my own ignorance,
there’s a lot to conquer that I will never conquer,

And I find a lot of comfort in that—I will always be busy.

And although, my back seems to be to the page,
I hold all the words close to my finger-tips, nurturing them
in conversations, allowing them to flow in dreams,
letting them blossom and ferment
until their own toxicity
is enough.

So I promise the words (unlike the flask,
the pencils, notepads,
and the keyboard) never
get dusty.

But yes,

I write less now
but it’s not because
I have less to write
and, no, I’m not too distracted.

She had tears flowing down her
face dripping off her chin splashing
as little droplets on to the floor.

I sat next to her in the pew in silence
I really wasn’t sure if she wanted to
be alone—we all
deal with death
differently.

Her head fell into her
cupped hands as she
took a deep breath
and heavily sobbed.

“Are you okay?” She didn’t say anything.
It was a dumb question, I know.
She just leaned in against my side, and
I put my arm around her.

“Why him?”

I looked up to a statue of Christ
mounted above the casket. His head was tilted
towards us crowned with crown of thorns. I looked into
his eyes, but today he gave no answers. He just looked on.
We all deal with death differently.

“I guess it just happened.” It was the wrong thing to say,
but it’s all I could say. I took slight comfort
in randomness instead of thinking
death as planned or with reason. I listened to her
sobs—I felt helpless for myself
and my ability to comfort her and
for the long, long days ahead.

We sat in the pews for a while until
her uncle came up to me, placing
his hand on my shoulder.

“It’s time,” he said gently.

I nodded
as he turned around and
went back to the lobby.

I lifted my arm from around her and
and I stopped myself from asking
if she was ready—

she never was going to be ready.

“How do I look?” the little makeup
she wore was slightly running, her hair
was a bit tattered, and her expression
weary and lost. But there were her eyes
They looked deep within me in search
for some sort of hope or comfort—
“you know, you eyes are beautiful when you cry?”
A dumb thing to say, I know, but I didn’t know
what to say so I just said the truth.

She feigned a smile and a faint laugh,
“well, at least we have that.”
We both stood up and headed for the lobby
to be with the rest of her family.

“It’s going to be a very long day.”
“I know, and I’ll be here for you if you need me.”
“Thanks,” she said giving me a slight hug from the side
tearing up once again.

I embraced her and we stood there
for a short moment that
felt faintly like an eternity but
then quickly faded back
to reality.

Yet, I can tell
you as we sat outside on
cool spring mornings
in silence entranced by
the ripples of the trout stream,
we were closer to God
than most.

I like to think
God was there with us
with his Son, Jesus, just
up stream—

See, that’s the reason we didn’t catch much.

Jesus was there applying a few tricks
which learned from his disciples
standing upon the water
with a line in his hand,
and the Father
who is the water, the Earth, and all
already had all the fish in
the lakes
and
seas

which left us with
near nothing,
just the wind, bird song, small talk
and a cool breeze
but that was enough.
Fishing was never really about fishing, anyway.